(c) He Doesn't Care. (PG13)

by zero Sun 11 Jan 2009, 1:20 pm

He Doesn't Care.

Author: Meeeeeee~
Rating: PG-13
Type: One-shot, OF, complete.
Summary:

He doesn't care about anything.
He doesn't believe in death; he thinks it's all fictional.
He doesn't live in reality, he lives in his head.
He sees people in mirrors and talks to them.
He's alone.

----

Everybody ignores him.

Nobody cares anymore. They all give up on him and leave him in the dark corner of the world to talk to himself, live with himself and die with himself. Everybody knows he has nobody but they leave him anyway. Give him a couple of video games, DVDs, a computer and a huge flat screen TV and he’ll never come back running to you.

I watch him. He doesn’t know I’m there, he doesn’t care. I watch him walk around the house everyday pretending there’s another person in the mirror. That’s what this house is. A house full of mirrors, just so that he wouldn’t realize that he’s all alone in the world.

He swings his head, left and right, back and forth on the bathroom tiles. I wince when I see tears run down his face, but he doesn’t care. He stops and falls and turns the water on. It runs and it fills the tub and it pours down to the whole bathroom. He doesn’t care.

Half an hour later, the water stops. He steps out, wet to the bone. His clothes are dripping, his skin full of wrinkles, but he doesn’t care. Water is everywhere and about an inch tall. He walks around to the kitchen and stops. He looks down and he sees himself in the water. He grins.

“Here’s Johnny!” he says, punching the wood floor. He screams in pain and doubles over on the wet floor. He cries some more, screeching for his mommy, but his mommy isn’t there. His mommy doesn’t care. He’s tired and falls asleep, feeling like he’s drowning in the water.

I clean up his mess. I slowly mop all of the water to the drain. I ice his bruised knuckles and I kiss them better. I pull on his arm and I drag him up to his room and on his bed. I know he’s awake while I do this, but he doesn’t care and falls into sleep again.

He’s dreaming and I know what it’s about. He screams and scratches his face. He’s being tortured; all the screaming is in his ears, all the pain is in his chest. He realizes what a shitty place reality is and he’s so lucky he doesn’t have to live in it. He dies in his dream, but he doesn’t care.

When he wakes up, he goes straight to the mirror. He talks, not to himself, but to the person he sees in the mirror, taking place in his reflection. I don’t understand him. He talks in some kind of gibberish. He gets angry and punches the mirror. Glass shatters on the ground and blood seeps through his wounds. He doesn’t understand; he doesn’t know what blood is.

He passes out on the stairs, he’s still bleeding. I take his hands and I look at them. One is bruised and the other bleeding. I start to pick out the pieces of glass in his flesh. He’s awake but his eyes are still closed. It hurts like a bitch, but he doesn’t care.

I wrap his hand in a bandage and I kiss his palm. “No more punching mirrors,” I whisper in his warm hand. I leave him before he wakes up, and I curse myself. It is all people do to him, leave.

He goes back to a mirror. He’s crying. His face is red and his eyes are sore. He starts talking and the only word I can make out of it is sorry. He starts a prayer and I know that he sees God in the mirror. He talks to a lot of people. He talks to God, his mother, Johnny from The Shinning.

I will never understand.

He’s all out of tears and he stops crying. He washes himself in his tub and sits there, singing My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion. It was his and his mother’s song before she left. He isn’t crying like he usually would, his face is blank. His wounds sting from the hot water, but he doesn’t care.

He falls into another sleepy state and he’s screaming again. I watch him, I wipe away all of the tears and sweat that streams down his face. I kiss his forehead and I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He wakes up and he remembers nothing. He turns on his TV and The Shinning is on. He laughs and starts to snack on chips. It’s his favorite movie. He laughs when somebody dies, but he knows death is a horrible thing. He laughs when he hears the screaming, but he knows it’s a terrible thing. But he doesn’t care. He thinks it’s all fictional.

Then he remembers it’s a Sunday. He does the sign of the cross and mumbles a small prayer for his mother that left him a long time ago. He does this every ten minutes, for the poor, for the suffering. And he does it all while he hears the cries from the morbid movie he’s watching.

He prays the rosary as he goes to sleep. His eyes are closed and his hands are pressed together like an angel. He’s on his bed, lying on his side.

“Hail Mary,” he prays. His voice cracks as he does, he’s crying. But he falls asleep, peaceful. He isn’t screaming. He isn’t dreaming.

I turn off the TV and pick up the left over bag of chips. I close the lights. I walk up to his room where he is and I tuck him in the covers. The rosary is still in his hand and his grip on it is still strong. His breathing is quiet and comforting.

I know that angels are watching over him.